Bad Boys
by H.J. Bender
Summary: Some things never change ... Roxanne runs off on the day of her own wedding to find Johnny, whom she fears to be in great danger. Cracktastic shenanigans ensue.


_It is better to be alone than in bad company._  
-George Washington

The speedometer in the 1998 Ford Mustang was hovering between 80 and 85 as Roxanne Simpson roared over the state line, squinting behind a dark pair of sunglasses and nervously chewing her bottom lip. Her French-tipped nails drummed against the wheel — she'd just had them done yesterday, and they shined glossily in the sunlight.

A sign flew past her passenger-side window. _Welcome to Yuma, Az._

She did the math in her head: as the crow flies, it was a little over 200 miles from Yuma to Tucson. But the highway to Tucson wasn't straight; she had to go north on I-8 for about 180 miles, then turn south onto I-10 for another sixty miles or so, making a total of nearly 240 miles. Roxanne rounded up to 250, to be generous. Okay, now: if the state patrol didn't nail her for speeding, and if she dared to push it up to 90, she could be in Tucson in about three hours, right around one o'clock in the afternoon. That should give her enough time to find Johnny Blaze and be back in San Diego for her wedding at seven o'clock that night.

Roxanne mashed the accelerator with a stiletto heel, spiking the needle just past 91. She passed a semi and moved into the left lane, praying that the cops had better things to do than bust a woman for speeding on her special day.

And it _was_ special: Brad, the man she'd been seeing for a year and a half, had finally proposed to her two months ago, and of course she'd accepted. At age 31, she'd been ecstatic about finally getting married. She wasn't getting any younger, after all, and Brad was a branch manager of one of the major banks in Sacramento. Security and stability, something that Johnny had always been unable to give her.

True, Brad was nowhere near as exciting and reckless in that sexy "bad boy biker" fashion, and the only two-wheeled thing he knew how to drive was a bicycle, but the fact of the matter was that the fire between Roxanne and Johnny had died years ago in Texas, and she had no regrets about moving on.

She and Johnny had stayed in touch as best they could with their nomadic lifestyles, but soon they'd both given up. The last time they'd spoken, Johnny said he was heading west toward Tucson. That was three months ago. Roxanne hoped he was there. She knew he moved around a lot, no doubt running from the police in every city between California and Alabama, but a feeling deep down inside reassured her that he would be there.

It was this same feeling that was the reason she was driving to Arizona on the day of her wedding: a sense of danger and foreboding, the feeling that Johnny was in serious trouble and needed her help. As much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, Roxanne still loved Johnny with all her heart, and she would put her life on hold and run to his rescue if she had to.

The exit for Fortuna Foothills went by in a blur. That meant Wellton was about twenty miles away. She was doing okay. She had three quarters of a tank of gas left and the cruise control set to a comfortable speed of 94.

"Just hold on, Johnny," she murmured determinedly. "I'm coming for you."

* * *

As a seasoned reporter, Roxanne knew how to get answers, where to look, and who to ask questions. Once she reached Tucson it didn't take her long to locate the police headquarters and ask to see reports for all the homicides in the past month. Investigative reporting she'd told them, flashing her credentials. She was in faster than you could say "Hard Copy".

Filtering through the murder records of crimes committed with guns and knives or other weapons, and picking out only those whose cause of death was marked "uncertain" or "severe burns", she pulled out a map of the area and stuck pushpins on all the points of the crime scenes. In a matter of minutes she'd triangulated a position and requested a printout of all the hotels, bars and garages within that selected area. She left the station an hour after walking in, with a sheet of paper in her hand and a good idea of where Johnny Blaze was hanging out.

She'd really missed her calling to be a detective.

* * *

Roxanne pushed through the doors of the Tucson Inn, a hotel of ill repute, and politely asked the man at the desk if she could see the registry. At first he was hesitant, but then she explained: "I'm looking for an old friend. I haven't seen him in years, and I was hoping to rekindle the flame, so to speak. Surely you wouldn't keep a lonely girl from finding her true love, would you?"

She pouted her full lips prettily, and the man handed over the guest registry and his phone number, just in case it didn't work out.

Roxanne browsed down the list until she recognized that familiar autograph she'd seen scrawled across countless posters, hats, and t-shirt fronts of large-busted women. Though the name given was Jack Blaise, Roxanne had no doubt in her mind. She smiled, shut the book, and handed it back to the man. "Thanks. That's all I needed."

* * *

Roxanne knocked on the door to room 38, then patiently waited. She heard sounds behind the door, the thump of footsteps and the rustle of sheets. Her stomach filled with butterflies. God only knew what Johnny would be like now. He was probably depressed and alone, pining for his long lost true love and mourning his inescapable future as the Ghost Rider. The man was probably in shambles, a complete wreck. She knocked again, then took a moment to smooth back her hair and brush the wrinkles out of her skirt.

A voice beyond the door called, "Who is it?"

"It's me!" Roxanne cried happily, recognizing Johnny's voice. "It's Roxy, open up!"

"Roxy?"

The door cracked an inch and then Roxanne plowed through it, throwing her arms around Johnny Blaze's shoulders and hugging him. "Oh, thank God! You're all right! I've been so worried!"

Johnny grasped his former girlfriend by the shoulders and gently pried her away. He looked startled, almost dismayed to see her. Roxanne read his expression and her smile faded.

"What's wrong, Johnny? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm . . . I'm fine. What are you doing here, Roxy? I thought you were in Sacramento."

She seemed taken aback by his flat questions, but decided to ignore them. "Johnny, I've been having these bad feelings — and dreams, too, bad dreams — and I just felt like you've been in some kind of danger for . . ."

She suddenly trailed off, finally noticing that Johnny was standing in front of her wearing nothing but a wrinkled bed sheet held loosely around his waist. He had curious red marks all over his arms and wrists, and something that looked like dried candle wax matted into his chest hair. He was also wearing what appeared to be a thick leather dog collar.

Roxanne, now with her keen investigative perspective, peered behind Johnny at the room. The bed was practically destroyed: the mattress was skewed, the covers strewn across the floor, pillows and feathers all over the place. Cords of nylon rope hung from the headboard, still knotted in places. Even the curtains were half-torn from their rods, as if someone had tried to climb them.

Discarded articles of clothing lay in crumpled heaps across the floor. She recognized Johnny's boots and leather jacket among them, but there were a few things that were new: a pair of black pants too small to be Johnny's, a broken riding crop, a pointy black boot, a lacy something-or-other that probably didn't cover much, a couple peacock feathers, a mask like the Lone Ranger's, the remains of several condom wrappers, an empty bottle of massage oil, and about twelve yards of heavy duty chain snaking over the carpet and disappearing under the bed covers. It also smelled faintly of brimstone and champagne.

Whatever had happened here, it had been one hell of a party.

Roxanne hoped she wasn't blushing as hotly as she felt she was. "I'm sorry, I seem to have caught you at a bad time."

"Huh? No, no, it's always good to see you, Roxy. Um." Johnny glanced behind him, around him, then back at Roxanne again. He smiled unconvincingly. "If you just give me a few minutes I can meet you downstairs and-"

"Johnny?" came a disembodied voice from the bathroom.

Roxanne's eyes widened. Blaze froze like a deer in headlights. "I can explain-" he started, but was interrupted by the bathroom door opening.

Blackheart — the demon — the son of the Devil — the Prince of all Hell — emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of too-big American flag boxer shorts that could only be Johnny's. His normally slicked-back hair was in complete disarray, hanging into his eyes and sticking up messily. He was covered with bruises, burns, bite-marks and hickies, and he was concentrating on trying to squeeze his hands out of the pair of handcuffs around his wrists. He looked very annoyed . . . and _very_ just-been-fucked-all-night-long.

"Johnny, where the hell is the key?" he snapped. "My dad'll kill me if I ruin these things — they're made of real helluminum, you know, and my thumbs just won't-"

Blackheart looked up, saw Roxanne, and choked on his words.

Roxanne gaped. "_You_!" she exclaimed, throwing her finger toward him. "What are you doing here!?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" the demon demanded. "This isn't a threesome, sister. Go try another door-"

"Blackheart," Johnny said sharply. "That's enough."

"She started it."

He turned back to the astonished woman. "Look, Roxy, I can explain everything-"

"No need. I understand." Roxanne drew her lips in a tight line. She looked heartbroken and furious. "You left me so that you could screw around with this evil punk-"

"No, no, Roxy-"

"-and I drive out here _on the day of my wedding_ because I think you're in _mortal danger_-" She was starting to cry now. "-and I find you here in this cheap, sleazy hotel, after you've-! You've spent the whole night _plowing_ this, this insane, demonic little CREEP-"

"Don't forget tall, dark and sexy," Blackheart added, trying to force his hands through the cuffs. "Nnf. Damn it. Johnny, I really need that key."

"I'll help you find it in a second — wait, Roxy, don't leave. Just let me explain."

Roxanne waited, arms crossed and hips cocked to one side, glaring at Johnny.

Blaze shook his head. "I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner. Me and Blackheart . . . Well, we both got tired of fighting, see, and it wasn't getting us anywhere, so we thought that-"

"That you'd rather fuck than fight, oh _yeah_, that makes a _lot_ of sense-"

"I know it sounds crazy, Roxy, but me and Blackheart have this really nice thing going on and-"

"Yeah," Blackheart cut in. He was sitting on the bed with his foot against the cuffs, trying to push them off his wrists. "Hnnf. You should have seen us going at it last night. Paris Hilton (rrgh) ain't got shit on me." His foot slipped and he crashed to the floor, still handcuffed.

Roxanne put her hand to her forehead. "I can't deal with this right now," she muttered. "I'm getting married in five hours, and the last thing I need is to find out the love of my life is . . . is _porking_ the Devil's son!"

Blackheart's dark, rippling chuckle rose up from where he lay on the floor. "Lady, I've changed my mind about you. You're a riot." He rolled his head back, staring at Roxanne's long legs from his upside-down perspective. "We should have sex. Right now."

Roxanne's mouth fell open. She shot Johnny an appalled look and he shrugged in response. "See how easy he makes it?"

"Jesus, Johnny!"

Blackheart was ROFL right now, his cuffed hands lying against his belly. "Come on, princess. I'll show you one last good time before you enter a life of monogamy — nobody has to know!"

"Blackheart, shut up," Johnny growled. "I'm sorry, Roxy. He got into my jellybeans this morning and I think the sugar's gone to his head-"

"It's alright, Johnny. I'm just." She sighed forcefully. "I'm just so ashamed of myself for driving out here without telling Brad or anybody . . . What's wrong with me? Am I getting cold feet? If this is the kind of wife I'm going to be, chasing after my old boyfriend every time I think he's in trouble, should I really get married?"

"Uh . . ."

"I mean, how can I be true and faithful if I'm constantly looking for every little excuse to come back to you?"

"Uh . . ."

"Does this mean I never loved Brad? I mean, I still care about him and everything but-"

"Aw, come on, lady!" Blackheart groaned. "Nobody wants to hear this shit. Either marry the guy or leave him, but don't stand here all day crying about it. You've got better things you could be doing." He grinned hopefully. "Like me."

As disgusted as Roxanne was, the little creep had a point. "You're right," she said slowly. "I can't keep clinging on to fantasies and hopes while my whole life passes me by." She walked past a dumbfounded Johnny and sat on the foot of the bed, holding her head in her hands. "I mean, I almost let my entire youth go to waste waiting for Johnny to come back to me, and if I don't snap out of it now and call it quits, I'm going to end up a frustrated old lady with no husband and no kids in a house full of cats."

Blackheart sat down beside Roxanne, who was beginning to weep.

"I can't believe I've been so stupid," she sniffed. "Why do girls always fall for the bad boys?"

"Because we're irresistible," said Blackheart matter-of-factly.

"I know, but . . . but all I want is a reliable man and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and two kids — is that too much to ask?"

"Depends on who you're asking. _Johnny_ here-" Blackheart pointed across the room at the still-dumbfounded man. "-isn't good for anything except an oil change and maybe a handjob, and if you really wanna move on with your life you've gotta kick his ass to the curb like yesterday's garbage and never look back. You deserve better than him."

"Gee, thanks," Blaze muttered.

"You're right." Roxanne wiped away her tears. "Thanks, Blackheart. You really know how to talk to a girl."

"That's because I'm fluent in _body language_," the demon leered, leaning over and putting his hand on Roxanne's knee. Half a second later he was recoiling with a bright red handprint springing up on his cheek. "Frigid," he muttered.

Roxanne stood and straightened her skirt brusquely, then glanced down at her watch. It read 3:18 pm. She had to hurry if she wanted to be back in San Diego by seven o'clock. She lifted her head to look at Johnny, standing forlornly by the door with a bed sheet held up over his pride, and then down at Blackheart, who had resumed his struggle with the handcuffs. "You boys doing anything else today?"

"Besides each other?" Blackheart snickered. "I dunno. Johnny?"

"Uh, no. No plans," Blaze stammered. "Why?"

Roxanne just smiled.

* * *

"Dearly beloved," the priest announced, "we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Bradley Roxburg and Roxanne Simpson in holy matrimony-"

"Roxanne Roxburg," Blackheart muttered, squirming in the pew. "What a stupid name. She's gonna sound like a character from _The Flintstones_."

"Quiet," Johnny shushed. "This is the best part."

"No. The best part will be when I get that fucking key from you." Blackheart held up his wrists, still bound together by the handcuffs and barely concealed by the sleeves of his black suit. "You're gonna pay for dragging me into a church, Johnny."

"Well, start thinking of ways to make me pay and stop whispering. People are starting to stare."

Aware of the frowning faces of several disgruntled guests, Blackheart fell into a silent sulk while Johnny sighed wistfully as bride and groom said their I do's. Roxanne looked beautiful, just like Johnny had imagined her to be. The recessional music began to play as the beaming husband and wife made their way down the aisle. The guests applauded politely. When Johnny was a kid he always thought he'd be someone more important than just a guest at Roxanne's wedding. How fragile, these dreams of youth, bygone and withered like the-

There was a metallic clink and Blackheart sprang up from the pew with a cry of joy. "GOT IT!" he shouted, the handcuffs dangling freely from one wrist.

The demon was suddenly the center of the entire church's attention. His smile faded when he finally noticed his surroundings.

Johnny grabbed Blackheart by the elbow. "Time to go."

The demon was dragged bodily from the crowded pew and past the newlyweds. In passing, Blackheart gave a cheerful salute to Roxanne and said, "Good luck, princess! If things don't work out, my phone number is 666-19-"

Blaze jerked him toward the door. "SHUT UP, BLACKHEART! . . . I'll see you later, Roxy. Congratulations to both of you and-"

"-78, and that's day or night, so if Brad is ever away on business and you get lonely-"

"SHUT UP, BLACKHEART!" Johnny and Roxanne shouted. She angrily flung her bouquet at the demonic pervert — it hit his shoulder and flower petals exploded all over the place. The guests gasped collectively. Blackheart picked up the disheveled bundle of flora and showed it to Blaze.

"Look, Johnny. I got the bouquet. You know what that means."

"Over my dead body."

"Viva Las Vegas, baby!"

"I don't think so."

"Aw, c'mon! You owe me, Johnny-boy. I need a dose of Sin City after being in this hellacious place . . ."

Bickering and whining, the two nuisances at last exited the church and normalcy resumed. Brad leaned over and whispered to his wife, "Do you know those two, Roxy?"

"Nope," she lied, staring out the door. "Good girls and bad boys just don't mix."


End file.
